After The Ides (Caesar's Spies Thriller Book 2)

by Peter Tonkin

  As far as the law in Capua was concerned, this was a party of friends who had been drinking in a hospitium when a slight unpleasantness had arisen, calling them out into the street. Where a person or persons unknown had killed one of them. Perhaps aiming for him. Perhaps aiming for one of the others. An unknown person with impenetrable motives. Who seemed to have disappeared almost magically into the night. They carried the body, escorted by the friends and witnesses, to one of the rooms attached to the Temple of Diana and sent for their boss.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the aedile now, his jowls quivering with insight, ‘this atrocity must have been committed from some distance. A rooftop did you say? I cannot conceive of someone standing beside the deceased and driving this monstrous thing through his head. And even if I could, I doubt anyone would have the strength to push it right through from one side to the other side like that.’ He shuddered, his whole body shaking like a quince jelly. ‘And all of you were gathered around him when it happened. Even the large slave who saw so much – Hercules is it? – was close by when the murder occurred. By my reasoning, therefore, you must all be innocent of this act…’

  ‘Unless one of us hired the assassin,’ Artemidorus observed. ‘But we will only discover the truth of that idea when we get to talk to him.’

  ‘My men are scouring the area at the moment and if they find any trace of this murderous monster they will alert me,’ nodded the aedile. ‘And I will alert you. In the meantime, you may return to the hospitium while I look further into the business. I would be grateful if you could warn me before you leave Capua.’

  ‘We had not yet decided where to stay for the night, sir,’ said Octavius, in his most modestly youthful tones. ‘Would you be kind enough to recommend somewhere to us?’

  ‘Well, the best places are expensive…’

  ‘Expense is no object,’ snapped Nobilitor. ‘This young man is…’

  ‘…is with me,’ interrupted Artemidorus, well aware that Octavius would probably prefer anonymity. For the time being at least. ‘I am Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus, Seventh Legion, on assignment for Co-consul and General Mark Antony. I have his letter of commission if you wish to see it.’

  ‘No, no. That will not be necessary. Well, then, the hospitium where your friend died is among the best, but my personal preference is for…’

  *

  ‘His brother probably owns it,’ observed Ferrata, sometime later, studying the frontage of the hospitium that aedile Siculus had recommended. Not in the least intimidated by the company he was keeping.

  But to be fair, thought Artemidorus, this place looked even nicer than the one they had just left. And, unless news travelled with supernatural speed in Capua, they would be anonymous here. For the time being. That certainly did seem to be what young Julius Caesar Octavianus wanted. For the moment.

  The six of them trooped in as Hercules and Quintus went to see to the stabling of their horses; the recovery of their saddlebags. Even Nobilitor’s as he was part of the group now. The aedile’s men had taken all of Flaccus’ belongings as part of their investigation. In the meantime, the six men received a warm welcome from the innkeeper’s wife. Busy though the town was, she said, there were plenty of rooms, a bath, and a delicious cena on offer.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Octavius as she bustled off to prepare their rooms. His cool gaze swept over Artemidorus and the still-shaken Nobilitor.

  ‘Table or tepidarium?’ asked Artemidorus. When Octavius hesitated, he enlarged. ‘Where we are least likely to be overheard. The bar or the bath?’

  ‘I certainly need a bath,’ said Nobilitor. ‘I stink of horse. And I believe I have a certain quantity of Gaius Valerius’ brains on me. A bath is only the beginning. I will have to go through a full ritual cleansing as soon as I get home! Brains!’ He shuddered.

  ‘Must be a relief to know that he had any,’ said Ferrata, bracingly.

  Only the fact that Nobilitor was still so deeply shaken saved him.

  ‘Caesar?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘Bath first,’ decided the young man. ‘We all need to relax.’ He glanced at Agrippa and Rufus, both of whom nodded agreement. ‘I think we have a great deal to discuss if what you have said is true. That you…’ he looked at the pale, blood-spattered patrician, ‘…come from Lucius Cornelius Balbus. And you, Centurion, and your tactless friend come from Mark Antony.’

  ‘Whether,’ added Agrippa, ‘either of you has any idea who killed Flaccus. Or which of us that nasty-looking bolt was actually aimed at.’

  ii

  Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa had a square, fleshy face which looked almost petulant at rest, thought Artemidorus. He had overhanging brows, a pugilist’s nose, a square jaw and a cleft chin. His right ear stuck out more than his left. His body matched his face. It was square. But muscular rather than fleshy. He looked like brawn rather than brain – an easy man to underestimate therefore. A mistake that Nobilitor seemed set on making. For he talked to young Caesar and his companions as though they had yet to assume the toga virilis of manhood. Caesar was difficult to read, so the spy could not work out whether he was amused or angered by this. The incisively observant Septem was certain, however, that the young Octavius was holding back a great deal of information. As he sounded out the men sent from Rome to greet him. Their motives and the motives of their masters.

  Quintus Rufus was easier. He was simply enraged by the patrician’s condescending manner and tone. Like Caesar Octavius, his face was narrow beneath a broad forehead. The most youthful-looking of the three. But his body, like his two companions’, was muscular and hard. His hands covered in telltale calluses, similar to Artemidorus’, Ferrata’s, and Quintus’. Soldiers’ bodies – though as yet unscarred. Soldiers’ hands. Which contrasted with Nobilitor’s body which was beginning to run to fat. And his hands which were as soft as a vestal’s.

  The five of them relaxed in the quiet end of a large, steaming tepidarium. Hercules was sorting out the baggage. Ferrata was testing the wine. Quintus was guarding the door. With even more vigilance than usual. The tepidarium was as well-maintained as the rest of the hospitium. The water seemed clean and fresh. No yellow currents or little brown logs afloat which made some of the country baths the spy had experienced less than pleasant. And the whole place smelt faintly of lemons.

  ‘Lucius Cornelius Balbus sent the unfortunate Flaccus and I to guard and guide you to him.’ Nobilitor looked down his nose at Octavius. An unfortunate habit, thought Septem; perhaps he had problems with his eyesight. ‘He supposed you would not wish a great fuss to be made – or he would have sent more. And had it even occurred to him that there might be sicarii assassins abroad, he would have sent a cohort; perhaps a legion. Clearly he wishes us to assure you of his good offices. You may call upon him for any sum you wish within reason, for he holds a great deal of wealth that belonged to Divus Julius your late adoptive father. In his position as his secretary. In the meantime, he sends through me, sufficient funds to take you to him. All you have to do is ask. His only concern, of course, is that young men who find themselves in possession of seemingly limitless funds simply fritter them away in excess and indulgence. Take, for example, the young Mark Antony…’

  ‘Talking of Antony,’ said Caesar Octavius quietly, switching his attention to Artemidorus. ‘What helpful advice and guidance does he send?’

  ‘None, Caesar. He sent gifts that he believes you will like. A bag of coin that you may use as you want – he can be the soul of generosity, as you may know. A message that he hopes you will visit him when you are established in Rome. He, too, holds more money and numerous effects that belonged to your adoptive father. But, as Marcus Fulvius was doubtless about to observe, I doubt whether he would feel that he was in any position to offer guidance. A little advice, perhaps. A little wisdom learned through bitter experience.’

  ‘Bitter experience indeed…’ sneered Nobilitor.

  ‘Of which he has apparently had a great deal,’ nodded Octavius Caesar, amused.
>
  ‘May I ask what your plans are, Caesar?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘Certainly. I and my two companions are travelling to Rome. I believe the people there will welcome me, as they did in Brundisium, though I must admit I landed further down the coast and approached the town with some caution.’

  ‘And when you get to Rome, young man?’ enquired Nobilitor, officiously. ‘A little fun, I expect? Invest at least some of your wealth in tasting what the centre of the world has to offer. It is not for nothing that all roads lead there. The taverns. The fleshpots. The games. The races.’ He was blissfully unaware of the icy looks all three of the young men aimed at him, for his eyes were closed in almost ecstatic contemplation of the things he was listing.

  ‘When I get to Rome,’ said Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, his tone so formal and icy that he almost chilled the bath, ‘I will invest every denarius I can get my hands on in building an army to avenge my father Divus Julius!’

  *

  Sometime later, all of them were gathered round a large table in a private cubiculim room just off the hospitium’s main atrium. Caesar Octavius’ simply stated objective of avenging his adoptive father seemed to have robbed Nobilitor of much of his arrogant decisiveness. Though, thought Artemidorus, the sudden death of his companion must also have shaken him deeply. But in the final analysis, the soldier and spy simply saw his opponent’s weakness as a potential advantage. Whatever Basilus had in mind for Caesar Octavius and his friends, Antony’s needs seemed greater. Especially as the young man’s stated objectives chimed so perfectly with the general’s.

  The only problems the spy could see were that Balbus had not yet contacted Antony – so their plans might turn out to be different. Especially as Antony had taken control of a great deal of Caesar’s personal fortune. Something Balbus, as the dead consul’s secretary, was likely to deplore. Also Antony’s plan of revenge against Caesar’s assassins was a long-term project dictated by more pressing political imperatives. Whereas Caesar Octavius’ aims seemed pure, uncomplicated and immediate.

  And, most importantly, perhaps, Antony in every conversation so far, seemed to view Octavius much as Nobilitor did. As an unschooled youth who could easily be twisted to his mentor’s more important ends. An unschooled youth, as the insightful Fulvia had observed, who already had firm friends amongst the officers and men of the six legions in Dyrrhachium. He really began to wish that it had been Antony rather than Puella with whom he had enjoyed the conversation about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  iii

  ‘So, Centurion Artemidorus,’ said Caesar Octavius as the last of the cena was cleared away. ‘You said that Antony had sent gifts of friendship.’

  ‘I did, Caesar. If you will allow me, I will go and fetch them.’

  ‘And I,’ snapped Nobilitor, not to be outdone, ‘Will go and fetch the money Lucius Balbus has sent for your use…’

  ‘And I,’ announced Ferrata, who had consumed as much wine as all the others put together, ‘will go and fetch the bag of coin that General Antony sent to smooth your way home to Rome. And I bet it’s bigger than Balbus’!’

  *

  ‘I will take the gifts and the coin, Ferrata,’ said Artemidorus as they left the private room together. ‘I want you to keep watch on Caesar’s door. I’m pretty sure that the assassin who fired the bolt which killed Flaccus was the same one as tried to kill me. But there is no guarantee that the same killer means it was the same target.’

  ‘But Quintus…’

  ‘You know very well that Quintus will be guarding my door. Now you go and guard Caesar’s.’

  ‘Very well, Septem,’ capitulated Ferrata with bad grace.

  ‘And I’ll send more food up. But no more wine. You’ll guard nothing well if you’re drunk or asleep.’

  ‘As you command, Centurion. Faciemus quod iubet… We will do what is ordered and at every command we will be ready. Sober or not.’

  Artemidorus returned a little later to find that Nobilitor was already seated, a sizeable bag in front of him, made fat by the coin it contained. ‘You need only ask,’ the patrician was saying, ‘and I will disburse what you need. As Lucius Balbus has instructed.’

  Artemidorus eased himself onto a seat and slid Antony’s bag of gold aureus coins, stamped with Caesar’s profile, onto the table. Saying nothing. Then he put the gladius beside them. And, beside the gladius, a pugio dagger. Which was almost a perfect match for the sword.

  Caesar Octavius was too courteous to interrupt Nobilitor. But as soon as the self-important messenger had finished relaying Balbus’ further advice and strictures, he turned to the silent centurion. ‘So, Centurion Artemidorus,’ he said. ‘What have you brought from Antony?’

  ‘This bag of gold. Which is yours to do with as you see fit.’ The spy pushed the heavy bag across the table. Octavius glanced at Agrippa and Rufus. None of them moved or spoke. Nobilitor, misinterpreting their silence, allowed his lip to curl disdainfully. Antony’s bag was smaller than Balbus.’ But he had no way of knowing it was heavier – filled with generous Antony’s golden aureii rather than the silver denarii Balbus had sent. Rufus reached for it and hefted it in his hand, eyebrows arched in surprise at the weight. Agrippa reached for the ornately sheathed gladius. Slid the steely iron blade out of the gilded black leather. ‘A fine weapon,’ he said. ‘Numidian?’

  ‘Possibly Punic,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Not Egyptian, apparently. You may wish to discuss the fine detail with Quintus.’

  Agrippa smiled. Nodded. ‘A worthy gift,’ he decided. ‘But the pugio? It almost matches. However…’

  Artemidorus lifted the dagger, held it out to Octavian. ‘It is the pugio that is Antony’s gift,’ he said. Slowly and formally. ‘The gladius was sent because they almost make a matching pair. And because it is a fine weapon. But this pugio is something truly extraordinary.’

  Octavius took it. Closed his fist round the sheath immediately below the cross guards. Slid the blade free. Sliced into the flesh between his index finger and thumb. Swore and started sucking the blood off his wounded skin.

  ‘Sharp,’ observed Agrippa, impressed.

  ‘That,’ said Artemidorus, looking Octavian straight in the eye, ‘is one of a pair bought by the Lady Servilia Caepionis for her son Marcus Junius Brutus. A pair that reputedly came from the farthest fringes of Alexander’s empire. The metal of the blades is unique, I am told. They hold an edge and a point better than any other I have ever seen. The blades are stronger and harder-wearing. Brutus had this one. Cassius had the other. This is one of the twenty two daggers that were used to kill Caesar. Its companion is another. Antony took it from your adoptive father’s corpse after Brutus himself had used it. And he sends it to you as a token. An assurance that he, too, will not rest until every man who wielded a blade that day is dead.’

  iv

  Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus rode into Rome one of Divus Julius’ new weeks later, as the sun was beginning to wester above a city still excited by the recent Ludi Megalenses holiday games. Artemidorus and his squad had accompanied Octavius and his friends on their journey north from Capua. At first to protect him from the possibility that the mysterious assassin would try to strike again. But later to try and keep some distance between the young Caesar and the ecstatic crowds who came to greet and cheer him as he passed. It was clear enough how word of his arrival had become current in Brundisium and then in Capua. Just how information about his progress and his imminent arrival in one town after another spread, was little short of magical. But spread it did. And crowds came out to see him pass as though every day was the feast day of a major deity and a holiday in consequence.

  Artemidorus rode up the Via Appia beside Octavius, his mind preoccupied with several problematic matters. The first concerned the late Gaius Valerius Flaccus. Who had murdered him and who had he murdered? The second concerned Antony. How would he react to the popularity and ability of a young man he dismissed as an easily manipulated boy and how would he r
eact to the news that he had sent gifts – and gifts of such momentous weight and promise – to the young Caesar?

  But the greatest problem occupying his mind was the enormity of the error both Antony and Balbus had made in underestimating Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus and his friends. Even Fulvia’s streetwise insight had fallen far short of the mark. For this was not a nervous boy coming to kiss the hands of his elders and betters, accept their grudging charity and follow their sage advice. This was a general leading an army. The reputation of one and the sheer size of the other seemed both to be growing exponentially. And had been doing so, apparently, long before they all met in Capua.

  *

  Probably fortunately, Ferrata had fallen asleep on guard at Octavian’s door. For the young man and his two companions had no intention of sleeping in the hospitium on the night after Flaccus’ murder. They crept past him in the darkness and left the city altogether. Though the gatekeepers swore no one had entered or left after dark. Whatever the truth of that, the fact was that the three young men had somewhere far better to rest than the hospitium. As Artemidorus and the others discovered early next morning. For, on the plain immediately south of Capua, there was a modest army encamped. The better part of a thousand strong, it was the heart of the legion Caesar Octavius was building to avenge his divine father.

  The people of Brundisium, it seemed, had more than welcomed him, as he had modestly suggested. After sacrificing in the Temple of Venus Genetrix – as the progenitor of his father’s family – Octavius had formally adopted his new name Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. The name, under the dictates of a smiling Fortuna, that Artemidorus had called him from the beginning. The loyal citizens of Brundisium – augmented by a great number of soldiers – had immediately turned over several million sestertii waiting in the town’s depository to finance Caesar’s planned invasion of Parthia. And then, again by the working of Fortuna, possibly at the prompting of Venus Genetrix, Caesar Octavius had met with a military detachment bringing the annual taxes to Rome from the Eastern Provinces. Which were immediately added to the wealth of Brundisium, as the soldiers added themselves to his burgeoning command. Making two treasure carts necessary. Not that the money was allowed to lie unused within them. As they passed through Campania south of Rome, every village along the way threw up more volunteers, mainly old soldiers. To whom the young Caesar promised a bounty of five hundred denarii each, with a down payment made at once.